


Your Boldness Stands Alone Among The Wreck

by ladypigswagon



Series: Tumblr Prompts [14]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood and Gore, M/M, Serial Killer!Peter, Tumblr Prompt, fbi agent!Stiles, mild descriptions of gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know,” Isaac says, whilst loading the mutilated body onto the ME’s gurney, “I’m starting to think Hale is just doing this to ask you out now.”</p><p>Stiles glowers at Isaac, who to his credit doesn’t cower away from Stiles’ hardened gaze. He just zips up the body bag and wheels it out of the room, his last statement hanging over Stiles head like a hangman’s noose. Stiles tries to mentally shake off the feeling but it’s difficult. Peter Hale’s last three murders have been gruesome odes to Stiles and this one is no different. The boy’s eyes, a pale imitation of Stiles own amber ones, had been removed and were residing on the kitchen counter. Hale had left an incredibly detailed sonnet about them in what Stiles suspects is the victims’ blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Boldness Stands Alone Among The Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked:Steter with ‘I’m on the FBI’s most-wanted list for killing a fuck ton of people, but calm down I just wanna date you because your face is v smoochable and you give me butterflies.’ au. Thanks!
> 
> Ok, this doesn't quite follow this prompt and is in fact very angsty. Sorry.

“You know,” Isaac says, whilst loading the mutilated body onto the ME’s gurney, “I’m starting to think Hale is just doing this to ask you out now.”

 

Stiles glowers at Isaac, who to his credit doesn’t cower away from Stiles’ hardened gaze. He just zips up the body bag and wheels it out of the room, his last statement hanging over Stiles head like a hangman’s noose. Stiles tries to mentally shake off the feeling but it’s difficult. Peter Hale’s last three murders have been gruesome odes to Stiles and this one is no different. The boy’s eyes, a pale imitation of Stiles own amber ones, have been removed and are residing on the kitchen counter. Hale has left an incredibly detailed sonnet about them in what Stiles suspects is the victims’ blood.  

 

“Do you want to read it?” Erica Reyes, Stiles detective partner, asks. It’s clasped in her hand and she is hovering between holding it out to Stiles and putting it into the evidence bag. Stiles sighs, snapping on a pair of forensic gloves.

 

“Might as well get it over with,” He says solemnly, accepting the note from Erica. It’s good quality paper, expensive and evidently from the victims’ writing desk. Hale is nothing if not resourceful. Stiles reads the following poem, trying to refrain from gagging at its explicit nature. Hale has taken a shine to Stiles, so much so that he’s gone so far as to change his MO. It used to be pretty blonde women who bore a striking resemblance to Kate Argent, the woman who Hale blames for the fire that killed his family. He’d managed to get to Kate, despite protective custody, several weeks ago. Stiles side twinges at the thought. Now Hale is murdering men with similar features to Stiles in some twisted attempt to demonstrate his desire.

 

Stiles hands the note back to Erica. She bags and tags it, grimacing when she has to do the same to the eyes.

 

“I’ll give these to Lahey,” Erica says, holding the bagged eyes at arms length. Stiles nods. She heads out, yelling to Isaac. Stiles watches them through the open front door. Isaac has just finished loading up the body. He accepts the eyes, before signaling to Stiles that he’ll see him in autopsy later. Stiles gives him a curt nod then turns away.

 

Hale may be a violent killer but you wouldn’t know it. The room is spotless, frighteningly so. Save the dead body and eye sonnet, to the untrained eye, it would be difficult to tell a murder took place here. But Stiles eyes are not untrained. The place looks spotless because Hale cleans after his murders, almost obsessively. More than likely Stiles will find no prints, no DNA, nothing to tie Hale to the murder. Hale is the FBI’s most wanted serial killer and Stiles will probably never get any biological evidence on him. It’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s no longer about revenge; it’s become a test of Stiles abilities.

 

_Come and catch me if you can sweet boy._

 

“Forensics should be done in about a hour or so,” Erica says. Her voice jolts Stiles back to the present. “But they aren’t expecting to find anything.”

 

“We never will,” Stiles mutters bitterly. Erica places a comforting hand on Stiles shoulder and squeezes. Stiles gives her a tired smile. It’s going to be a long day.

 

 

 

“I want Hale caught Stilinski,” Director Morrell says as she overlooks the city. Her voice is steady. Calm. It doesn’t give away her emotions, never has. It makes her a good director. Stiles rubs a hand over his face but that only makes him feel more tired. Morrell turns to face Stiles, her eyes laser focused. Stiles always feels like he’s being emotionally scrutinized in Morrell’s presence.

 

“We need a confession,” Stiles replies, shoving his hands into his pockets so that they won’t shake. He needs coffee. Or Adderall. Whichever is closest to hand. “There is no DNA evidence tying him to any of the murders, no witness statements and given his vast fortune he can afford to buy a fancy lawyer. Without a signed or taped confession, we both know that he’ll slip out of our fingers. It’s like trying to catch smoke with nothing but a butterfly net.”

 

Morrell’s expression remains neutral. She’s like her brother that way. Deaton has been the presiding ME for as long as Stiles can remember. In fact, Stiles is due to see him for an autopsy pretty soon.

 

“Catch him Stilinski,” Morrell repeats, “We both know you’re capable.”

 

Stiles snorts.

 

“That’s the whole problem,” Stiles says, his voice sharper than a razor’s edge, “If I wasn’t so damn capable then he wouldn’t be trying to test me like this.”

 

_Come and catch me if you can sweet boy._

Morrell says nothing but Stiles knows he’s being dismissed. He downs two cups of coffee but his hands won’t stop shaking.

 

 

“He made an incision here,” Deaton says, indicating a deep cut on the victims’ arm. “Notice how it is not abraded and there is no undermining of the edges. He obviously knew what he was doing.”

 

“I presume this is where he got the blood for his creepy poem,” Erica says. Her face is contorted into a picture of unpleasantness. Stiles notes that she has chosen to stand beside Isaac, who is washing pipettes in the steel sink, a good distance from the dead body. Stiles is standing opposite Deaton, the victim between them. Deaton has had the decency to close the guys eyelids so that Stiles doesn’t have to look at the gaping maws and know that he’s the reason that they’re missing.

 

“Was he poisoned?” Stiles asks.

 

“I’m still waiting for the tox screen from forensics,” Deaton replies, “But I would presume that given that this is a Hale murder, that aconitum genus was used to disable the nerves, lower the blood pressure, and stop his heart. Given the injection mark on our victims neck, that is presumably where the poison was injected.” Deaton moves the head to indicate a red mark on the neck.

 

“Were the eyes removed before or after he was dead?” Stiles asks. It’s a sentence that is difficult to say, it catches in his throat on the way out.

 

“Postmortem but the incision was made presumably when the victim started to go numb.” Deaton says all this with a neutral expression which reminds Stiles scarily of Morrell despite the five year age gap between them. Clearly in their family, neutral and mystifying expressions are either a genetic trait or a right of passage. 

 

“Erica, go up to Boyd in forensics and see if they have anything,” Stiles orders, “Tell them I need a report on my desk by tomorrow.”

 

Erica looks as if she’s going to protest but sees Stiles expression. Her mouth closes with a click and she leaves. Isaac doesn’t need prompting. He dries his hands, grabs a few files off of the nearby desk and heads out after Erica, calling for her to hold the elevator door. Stiles is left alone with Deaton, who is getting ready to sew the victim shut. In Stiles mind, he remains the victim because putting a name to this man will just add to the guilt that’s already building in Stiles stomach.

 

“What does he want?” Stiles asks, breaking the silence. Deaton looks up from threading his needle.

 

“Hale.” It’s a statement not a question. Stiles nods as he rams his hands in his pockets. “Do you want my opinion as an ME or a psychologist?”

 

“Psychologist.”

 

“Are you sure Agent Stilinski? Miss Martin or Director Morrell are far more qualified to give their professional opinion.”

 

“You sister terrifies me and Lydia is emotionally invested in me. I want someone objective.”

 

Deaton processes this information before replying. Every word sounds carefully chosen. 

 

“The same thing he has wanted since you met that night Agent Stilinski. For you to solve his puzzle and catch him. Or join him, either is possible.”

 

“Join him,” Stiles scoffs, repulsed by the idea. He’s only fired his gun twice in his career, preferring to use words over weaponry. Whilst he’s dedicated to his job that hardly makes him cut out to be a serial killer.

 

“You share similar qualities and it is evident that Hale has a great respect for you and your abilities. Why else would he pursue you in such a manner?”

 

“You think we’re alike,” Stiles says. It’s a sickening thought.

 

_We’re alike, you and I, my dear_ _Tymoteusz. Soon you’ll come to realize it._

 

“I said you share similar qualities,” Deaton corrects, “Both of you are intelligent, cunning and have a keen wit. Your dedication to your father and close circle of friends is not unlike the dedication that Peter Hale had to his family. We both know that if John Stilinski was murdered, you’d do everything in your power to bring the killer to justice.”

 

“Yeah but I wouldn’t go on a killing spree to find him,” Stiles says indignantly. “I might be a bit over zealous but I wouldn’t kill them.”

 

Deaton narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t quite believe him.

 

 

“Boyd confirmed the poison, it was aconitum genus or aconite to the less Latin inclined among us,” Erica says, handing the tox screen to Stiles. Another mountain of paperwork to add to a case that is becoming predominantly paperwork and not enough actual police work. FBI Bureaucracy at its finest.

 

“We know that it’s Hale,” Stiles says, “If we could just catch the bastard.” He drains the dregs of the crappy filter coffee he’s been swilling all day. It’s disgusting but the bitter taste is keeping him awake.

 

“Do you maybe want to actually digest something that isn’t 90% talcum powder?” Erica suggests, prizing the mug from Stiles grip. Stiles signs heavily but nods.

 

“Something with vegetables in it would be best,” a voice interjects. Stiles spins in his desk chair to look properly at the speaker. Lydia Martin is standing behind him, arms folded and expression carefully controlled. Erica looks between them and sensing the imminent danger, sets off with promises to return with a healthy lunch.

 

“How are we today Lyds?” Stiles aims for casual but seems to fall short.

 

“I have spent the last hour trying to convince Gerard Argent not to file a lawsuit and convince Morrell not to remove you from this case.”

 

“I gather that was a difficult task,” Stiles replies coolly. Lydia is tight lipped and livid but Stiles always likes to push.

 

“My main argument was that we have no idea what Hale would do if his new favorite plaything was removed from the investigation.”

 

“I presume another hostile killing spree,” Stiles says.

 

“No, he’d set up shop in Argentina selling flower bouquets at the side of the road,” Lydia retorts sarcastically. Sarcasm is usually Stiles ballpark though Lydia knows how to swing when she needs to. It’s partly why he fell in love with her in the first place. Also her intelligence. And the fact that she’s a goddess. But Stiles infatuation feels like a lifetime ago. He’s grown since then. Literally, he’s a few inches taller.

 

“Lydia, maybe I should be removed from the investigation,” Stiles says. Lydia gives him a look that typically signals instant death.

 

“Why? So you could pursue him on your own? Do I look like an idiot?”

 

“Maybe to gage his reaction,” Stiles says, “Throw him a curveball, see how he adapts.”

 

“The logical thing would be to remove you from the investigation,” Lydia says, “After Kate, it would make sense therefore it is likely that Hale has planned for it. He’s cunning, calculating. He probably has numerous plans in place in order to discern his desired outcome. We are being played Stiles, it’s time we come up with something to change the rules.”

 

Stiles groans, ignoring the twinge in his side whenever Kate is mentioned. Lydia, perceptive as always, notices.

 

“No one blames you Stiles.” It’s gentle, quiet. But it does nothing to the guilt. The guilt is poisonous and selfish.

 

“Pretty sure Gerard does,” Stiles says, rolling a pencil between his fingers.

 

“Gerard didn’t think Hale was a serious threat until Kate was lying dead,” Lydia snaps, “He constantly ignored our advice and ignored the evidence that proved she did burn the Hale house to the ground. His attitude contributed to her death. Plus he’s an arrogant dick.”

 

Stiles snorts. He rubs his eyes, trying to remove some grit and wake himself up more. This job is draining him. This case feels like it’s sucking the life out of him, crushing his soul bit by bit.

 

“I don’t know Lyds,” Stiles says, his voice heavy, “Gerard Argent wasn’t in the room when his daughter had her throat cut from ear to ear.” Stiles hands are shaking again. Lydia puts hers over his, a comforting and warm grip.

 

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

 

_Such a clever boy._

“Food,” Erica shouts, cutting the tension of the moment. Stiles stands, happy to receive vegetable curry with naan bread. Lydia kisses his cheek before she leaves. Stiles rubs his cheek gently, skin tingling where her lips touched him. The usual whomp of feelings that he used to associate with Lydia did not come. Christ, he really has moved on. He splits a soda with Erica, the sugar buzzing in his system and the food making him feel warm. He tries not to dwell on his guilt.

 

He dwells. And hates himself for it.

 

 

 

Eventually Erica yells at him to get some sleep, even if it isn’t at home. He doesn’t want to, sleep is when his guilt and subconscious team up to mentally scar him but Erica threatens to set Lydia on him so he gives in. Erica clears out the staff room so that he can kip on a sofa. She even kisses his forehead and switches off the light. She’s too good for this world really. Against Stiles will, he falls asleep almost instantly.

 

_“You don’t have to do this,” Stiles says, weapon trained on Peter’s forehead. Peter smirks. Kate is struggling but Peter’s grip is iron. She won’t be able to escape. Stiles has relieved this moment over a thousand times._

_“For fucks sake Stilinski,” Kate screeches, “Shoot him!”_

_“I wouldn’t do that sweet boy,” Peter says. The knife presses against Kate’s neck. Blood bubbles, hot and bright and red. “Regardless of your actions, Kate here is going to die. And you’re going to let it happen.”_

_“I know what she did,” Stiles pleads, “But there’s a legal system. We have enough evidence to convict, she doesn’t have to die.”_

_“Yes Tymoteusz, she does,” Peter says, conversationally as if he isn’t bartering for a life but talking about the weather, “She left me broken and burned and alone in this world. She took my family from me so I’ll take her from hers.”_

_Peter slits her throat from ear to ear. The blood cascades, thick and crimson, a stark contrast to the white kitchen. Kate’s body crashes to the ground and Peter steps back, eyes filled with a burning destructive fire. Stiles is on his knees trying to stem the flow, trying to save her. He knows he can’t. He never will be able to. Katherine Argent dies over and over again and her blood is on his hands._

_Peter grabs hold of Stiles, kicking away the gun and yanking Stiles to his feet. Stiles shirt and trousers are stained with Kate’s blood. Peter looks ridiculously pleased about this. He crowds Stiles against the counter, hands tight on Stiles hips._

_“Such a clever boy,” Peter purrs, “You could be my clever boy if you’d let me own you.” Peter kisses Stiles, fierce and passionate. He bites and sucks at Stiles neck, determined to leave lasting marks. Stiles gasps when Peter grinds against him. Peter relishes the sound, pulls a few more from Stiles before stopping._

_“_ _We’re alike, you and I, my dear_ _Tymoteusz. Soon you’ll come to realize it,” Peter says. He cups Stiles face, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. “I’m going to come for you Tymoteusz, I’ve been making plans and soon I am going to come for you. We are going to be so happy together, you’ll see.”_

_“You won’t get away with this,” Stiles pants. Peter laughs._

_“Come and catch me if you can sweet boy.”_

_Stiles feels the sharpness of the knife. Feels it cutting his skin. Blood. Blood. Blood. Peter is gone and Stiles is bleeding. He’s dying. He’s dying._

Stiles wakes up in the darkness of the staff room and thanks whatever deity is watching over him that this time he didn’t vomit. He sits up, swinging his legs to the ground. He leans on his knees, breathing deeply. The panic attack is creeping through his veins but he’s going to suppress it. Stiles regulates his breathing, rubbing his hands along his thighs. The panic attack fades and Stiles is calm again. He ignores the memory of Peter’s hands on his skin, instead going to the sink to get a glass of water.

 

He drinks two glasses, leaning against the counter. The room is still dark but the gentle light from the corridor has managed to sneak in, highlighting the furniture. Stiles heads over to the window to stare at the city sprawling beneath him. It’s a bustling, vibrant city, home to millions. And Stiles feels like he can’t do his fucking job and protect any of them.  Anyone with even a tiny similar feature to Stiles is at risk. The last few victims only had to have amber eyes or slender fingers to be murdered. Stiles rubs a hand across his face, wiping away the tears.

 

 

 

He goes out for breakfast the next morning. The fresh air is a wonderful replacement for the stale, stuffy fog that surrounds his desk. Stiles chooses to go to a crappy diner off the main high street. The kind of place where you’re never quite sure whether they’ve had a health inspection in the last year and if they have then how the hell did they pass. Stiles likes it because of the pancakes, best in the city in his opinion. Also it’s quiet and out of the way, so Stiles knows he won’t be disturbed. It’s a reprieve from the chaos of work.

 

As usual, the diner is practically empty, save the staff and a few shifty looking white men that are probably drug dealers. They keep anxiously gazing around before talking in hushed whispers. Stiles ignores them, taking the booth at the back, which allows him a view of the street. The leather seats are ancient and peeling. On the table there is a suspicious looking stain that might be mold. Stiles orders a stack of pancakes and a glass of orange juice because for once he cannot stomach even the thought of another coffee.

 

The orange juice arrives first. Stiles uses it to wash down his Adderall. His neck aches, a deep-seated burn. He rubs at it with his hand, cupping the back of his neck and squeezing. It does very little to get rid of the ache but it’s better than nothing. Stiles tilts his head back, rolling it around in slow circles. He loosens his tie some more. Then he plays with the sugar packets in a ceramic cup on the table, counting how many white sugar packets there are compared to brown sugar. It’s something he used to do as a child to keep him entertained in restaurants. After he has done so, he takes his tie off completely as it feels too much like a noose.

 

His pancakes arrive, a large cube of butter on top of maple syrup. Stiles unwraps his cutlery from the napkin they came wrapped in. He’s about to take his first bite when a tall, dark haired woman in a smart business suit sits opposite him, grimacing as she does. Stiles pauses, amber eyes flicking up to observe the woman. Early thirties, white and clearly uncomfortable with her surroundings.

 

“Can I help you?” Stiles asks. He eats his bit of pancake that’s residing on the fork as it is threatening to slip off.

 

“Agent Stilinski.” It’s a statement not a question.

 

“Yes,” Stiles replies slowly.

 

“Jennifer Blake. I’m here on behalf of a mutual… _friend_.” She says friend with great care as if not entirely convinced by it.

 

“Friend?”

 

“Friend is perhaps the wrong term. Acquaintance might be better but given how well and intimately he knows us, friend is perhaps the only description applicable.”

 

Stiles takes another bite of pancake, chewing slowly as he mulls over potential people that could fit her description.

 

“And who is this _friend_?” Stiles dreads the answer.

 

“Peter Hale,” Jennifer replies, flicking away imaginary lint from the cuffs of her shirt. Stiles stops eating. He pushes his plate away, guilt and shame and dread gnawing at him like a starving dog.

 

“If you know the whereabouts of Peter Hale,” Stiles begins, words threatening to catch in his throat.  Jennifer cuts him off with a sharp flick of the wrist.

 

“I don’t know the whereabouts of Peter Hale,” She says, tone conveying an irritation at the fact, “I’m just the messenger whilst Peter is off doing whatever he does when he’s not here.” She waves her hand around, perhaps trying to say that she’s talking about the city rather than this particular diner.

 

“So he’s not in the city.”

 

“I don’t think he’s even in this country,” Jennifer replies, “How he heard about the murders is beyond me however he wishes me to tell you this. He quote did not kill those men Tymo… Tymo… Agent Stilinski, if you look close enough you’ll see unquote. He then said something frankly too disturbing for me to repeat. The point is, Peter Hale isn’t trying to woo you with blood sonnets and dismembered men. You need to look again.”

 

“All the murders have similar qualities to Hale’s. Same poison, same spotless surroundings.”

 

“The first thing you should know about Peter Hale is that he never lies. Yes, he’ll entertain misdirection and he partakes in clever truth telling when running circles around you but he never lies.” Jennifer says this with such conviction that Stiles is inclined to believe her. “If he says you need to look again then you probably do. He sounded very disappointed on the phone.”

 

“You have his number?” Stiles tries not to let hope creep into his voice. He’s not entirely sure he’s successful given Jennifer’s raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

 

“No,” Jennifer says, examining her nails the same way Lydia does when she’s bored, “Don’t think I haven’t tried that. Being in Peter Hale’s debt is not exactly ideal for me.”

 

Stiles opens his mouth to ask why and how Jennifer found herself in debt to Peter Hale but she cuts him off.

 

“If Peter doesn’t want to be found, you won’t find him. I would presume that he’s carving out a piece of the world for himself somewhere and it would be best for you to do your job and look again.”

 

Jennifer stands, smoothing down her skirt. She looks at Stiles with something akin to pity.

 

“I wish I could help you Agent Stilinski.” It almost sounds sincere.

 

“No you don’t.”

 

“You’re right I don’t, but anything that has Peter Hale’s attention for this long must be pretty special or at least worthy of close monitoring.”

“You think you can use me as a pawn?” Stiles enquires. He downs his orange juice, thinking that it would have been more impressive and hardcore if it were coffee.

 

“And come home to my girlfriends mutilated corpse or worse, end up a mutilated corpse myself,” Jennifer scoffs, “I’m not a complete idiot.”

 

And with that she leaves, high heels clicking on the hardwood floor. The shop bell jingles with the opening and closing of the door. Stiles stares at his pancakes that have now gone cold, the syrup starting to solidify. He shrugs and eats them anyway.

 

 

 

He doesn’t tell anyone that he’s going over the crime scene of the latest crime. He’s not entirely sure whether he’ll find anything; the whole place has been bleached. Stiles isn’t quite sure why he’s doing this but he has to admit, the change in Peter’s MO and the seeming randomness of these attacks does suggest that maybe Jennifer is right. When he was hunting down Kate Argent, the victims looked exactly like her minus a few minor details. It makes sense that Peter wouldn’t settle for anything less if pursuing Stiles. In everyone’s mind, Peter was already guilty but they’ve never actually proved it. And if Stiles remembers his father’s advice correctly then the truly guilty will always slip up.

 

He snaps on a pair of forensic gloves and begins to his hunt around the house. It turns up very little. The whole house is like an Ikea showroom, all flat pack furniture and fake plants. It tells Stiles nothing about the victim or the murderer. Frustrated, Stiles heads out into the garden. Again very little, apart from an overabundance of dandelions and a dry rot problem in the decking. Stiles begins to thing that Jennifer and Peter are conspiring together to damage his subconscious even more.

 

Stiles is about to give up and just leave when he spots the garbage. More importantly the neighbor’s garbage. They took away the victims in case any evidence had been hiding in it but they hadn’t taken the neighbors, presumably because the neighbors had left two days before the murder and were shown to currently be in Hong Kong. Surely the murderer wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave anything incriminating in garbage, even if it is the neighbors. Peter certainly wouldn’t. But if it isn’t Peter.

 

The garbage is a few days old and smells like a diseased raccoon climbed into an airing cupboard in the middle of summer and festered there until it died. Stiles breathes shallowly through his mouth, rooting around inside. The neighbors seem to buy a lot of fruit but don’t actually eat it, which is pointless and wasteful in Stiles opinion. He’s nearly at the bottom when he sees it, glittering in the Californian sunlight. He reaches in, pulling the needle out gently. It’s almost empty but Stiles can see the remainder of the poison, perhaps only a few drops. He grins, bagging and tagging it. He grins because if he tilts it just so, he can see a fingerprint.

 

 

Boyd is smiling. It’s not a rare occurrence but still it surprises Stiles every time he sees it. It’s a nice smile but it’s typically reserved for Erica. Stiles is wondering when those two will stop dancing around each other and go on a date.

 

“Did you lift a fingerprint?” Stiles asks. Boyd nods, grin still in place.

 

“And?” Stiles prompts, gesturing for Boyd to continue impressing him with cracking forensics work.

 

“It’s running through AFIS but the poison is defiantly aconite and the epithelial cells on the end of the needle match the victim.”

 

Stiles mouth drops open and he has to grip the nearby table to stop himself from keeling over. Boyd’s arms are out, as if he’s ready to catch Stiles should he decide to faint in shock. Stiles waves them away, pulling Stiles desk chair towards him and sinking into it. There’s a niggling thought at the back of his head that the fingerprint won’t match Hale’s and that Jennifer was right. He elects to ignore it.

 

“Should we tell the Director?” Boyd asks. Stiles looks up at Boyd. He constantly has to do that; Boyd is built like a tank.

 

“Not yet,” Stiles decides, “Wait until the fingerprint is matched.”

 

Boyd nods, returning his attention to the computer where the print is running through AFIS. A multitude of fingerprints and faces flash across the screen, gone too fast for Stiles to identify any of them. He’s worried. His hands are rubbing over his thighs, a movement that makes him think of his mother. She liked to rub her thighs in small circles when she was nervous, the fabric beneath her fingers grounding her. It’s a habit that Stiles picked up after she died.

 

The computer dings. It’s loud. Clear as the proverbial bell.

 

“We got a match,” Boyd says. Stiles jumps up. It takes him barely a second to be in front of the computer, staring at the faces that match the prints.

 

“That’s not Peter Hale,” Stiles says. The look Boyd gives Stiles is a mixture of exasperation and shock. It does not bode well.

 

 

“I’m insulted that I wasn’t called in on this,” Erica says, popping blueberries into her mouth whilst perched on her desk. Lydia, who is standing beside Erica, raises her eyebrows and gestures in a way that implies she concurs with the previous statement. Stiles sighs heavily, pinning the photo of the fingerprint match to the board.

 

“Unger and Reddick,” Stiles says, tapping the photo as he turns. A grim looking white guy and angry looking black man stare at the room at large. “Both their prints were found on a needle recovered from the crime scene, the needle used to poison the victim.”

 

His audience consists of Erica, Lydia and Director Morrell. Their facial expressions are incredibly similar. It’s ominous.

 

“They are known associates of Kate Argent,” Stiles continues, “And are also responsible for the Hale fire.” Stiles points to the array of evidence scattered across the board. He’s spent the last few hours piecing it together, watching the jumbled pieces of information come together to form the bigger picture. It’s been a tangled mess for so long, all Stiles had to do was pull the right thread to have it come apart in his hands.

 

“You think Peter Hale is being framed?” Lydia asks, her words slow as if unsure why that sentence would ever cross her lips.

 

“I think he was being framed for all the murder’s except Kate,” Stiles replies. He’s aware that this statement is controversial. Erica looks dubious, Lydia looks confused but Director Morrell’s expression is neutral. Stiles decides to pitch to her. It’s easier than the other two.

 

“I think that Unger and Reddick were hired to perform all the murders leading up to Kate’s. Peter Hale didn’t kill Kate in the same way as the other women were murdered. No poison, no spotless crime scene. I mean, just because I was present wouldn’t have changed his style, seeing as victim number four was killed despite her father being asleep in the basement at the same time. I think that Unger and Reddick performed these murders and the subsequent ones, in order to frame Peter Hale, maybe to get him jailed before Kate was charged for the Hale fire. I say we bring them in and push them to see how far they bend before they break.”

 

The silence following Stiles monologue is deafening. He’s panicking internally. Erica looks a little nervous, her eyes flicking between the evidence board and Stiles whilst Lydia’s eyes are trained on Director Morrell.

 

“Do it,” Morrell says before she turns on her heel and leaves. As exits go it is a pretty badass one. Stiles rubs his hands together, already planning his interrogation technique. Erica is already strapping on her gun, getting ready to leave. Lydia looks like she’s about to say something but decides against it. Her expression is something Stiles avoids looking at, for fear that he will see the worry in her eyes. Lydia has always been adept at reading Stiles emotions and Stiles plans to give her nothing in relation to this. She can wheedle any information out of him and if he spills about Jennifer then he’s not sure what will happen. So he avoids her eye as he leaves.

 

 

 

“You ain’t got nothing on us,” Reddick says. He oozes smugness like a bad odor. He’s slouching in his seat, legs spreads and arms crossed. Unger is mirroring his position, although his eyes betray him. His eyes are nervous, flitting from Stiles to Erica to the exit to Reddick in quick motions. Restless eyes that focus on Stiles two seconds longer than any of the others.

 

“That’s not quite true,” Erica, says, holding up the needle that’s covered in their fingerprints, “You boys ought to be more careful. Peter Hale wouldn’t make this kind of mistake.”

 

Reddick’s smug smirk drops from his face. Unger’s eyes stop flitting around like hummingbirds and focus directly on the needle. He tugs at his t-shirt collar, as if it’s too tight for him. Stiles can practically see the cogs turning in Unger’s head; watches as he prepares to rat out his partner for a deal. There’s no loyalty amongst criminals.

 

“If we confess, do we get a deal?” Unger asks, eyes almost popping out of his skull. Reddick looks offended briefly before looking to Stiles to gage the reaction. Stiles remains silent, but Erica hums and haws, theatrically considering the offer.

 

“I don’t know. Agent Stilinski, do you think they deserve a deal?”

 

A blood vessel on Unger’s head looks ready to burst.

 

“Did you kill the women that looked like Kate Argent and the men who shared similar traits to myself?” Stiles asks. His voice is cold, emotionless and sharp. Typically Stiles is the funny cop, using sarcasm and quick wit to corner their suspects. But not now. Stiles is straight backed, as still as a fox waiting to pounce on it’s prey. His gaze is hard. Evidently this is getting to Unger because the confession pours from him like a dam bursting.

 

“Look, we are just the hired guns alright. We got debts and he said this was the best way to pay em. All we had to do was kill a bunch of chicks that looked like the Argent girl, but never the actual Argent girl. He said that the Argent girl would never get hurt; it was to lure Hale out something. I don’t know ok, we weren’t told much. So we killed those girls and then Argent was dead and he flipped. Said that wasn’t how it was supposed to go down. So he told us to start killing men that looked like Stilinski, said to make it as creepy as possible. I swear we don’t know any more than that.”

 

Unger trails off. Reddick’s eyes are wide now; he looks ready to throw up. Both of them are sweating, a thin sheer layer over their faces.

 

“Who hired you?” Stiles asks. Reddick gulps.

 

“Gerard Argent.”

 

 

 

Stiles isn’t allowed into the interview room with Gerard but he’s allowed to watch through the glass. Argent is hooked up to a ventilator and looks like a zombie that crawled out of it’s grave after decaying for several decades. Stiles clenches and unclenches his fists, furious at the cold expression on Gerard’s face, seemingly unfazed by the whole process. Director Morrell is watching Stiles with a neutral expression but he knows that she’s concerned.

 

“Your goons tell us that you ordered the deaths of all those poor women and subsequent murders of three young men,” Erica says, her voice laced with venom.

 

“Goons?” Gerard wheezes, evidently amused.

 

“Goons, lackeys, men in your debt,” Erica replies, giving a non-committal hand gesture. “Point is, you were trying to lure Peter Hale out with murder in order to what exactly?”

 

Gerard laughs but it’s more of a death rattle.

 

“Do you know what Peter Hale does for a living?” Gerard enquires, “He’s a fucking contract killer. So yeah, he didn’t murder all those pretty young women or men. But he’s murdered countless others and he murdered my daughter, your little agent saw it happen.”

 

“Why were you trying to lure him out?” Erica asks, voice steady. She refuses to be swayed by Gerard’s twisted reasoning.

 

“Thorn in my side for too long. Thought having Kate burn his family to death would send a clear enough message but evidently not. He wanted to kill her, but never got the opportunity. So I gave him one. But you idiots didn’t imprison him so I had to lure him out again.”

 

“And you thought using Agent Stilinski was the best option?”

 

“Hale’s got a hard on for Stilinski, so yeah, why not.”

 

“I assume you were going to have Hale killed whilst in prison,” Erica continues. Stiles is almost ready to punch the glass and rip Gerard apart.

 

“Of course. I needed that fucker removed and the FBI couldn’t do their fucking job and arrest him, they had to let him kill my daughter and get away.”

 

“Well,” Erica says, gathering her papers and standing, “We’re doing our job now. Congratulations Mr. Argent, enjoy the last remainders of your pitiful life in prison.”

 

Erica sweeps from the room, door slamming shut behind her. Director Morrell sighs heavily before leaving the observation room, probably to do damage control.  Stiles slumps into a desk chair, flicking a button so that the sound from the interrogation room no longer comes through the speakers. He can’t stand the wheezing and whir of the ventilator. Stiles manages to last four minutes before he throws up into the wastepaper basket.

 

Stiles doesn’t go to Gerard’s trial. He just can’t do it. Instead he sits on a park bench, feeding the birds and letting his mask slip. The bureau thinks the removal of Gerard Argent, secret mob boss, was a big win. Something that should be celebrated. Well done, Stilinski, the bad guy is off the streets, the city is safe again. The pats on the back and well wishes blur together after a while. It doesn’t stop Stiles feeling guilty for Kate Argent’s murder, for letting Peter Hale slip away.

 

Peter remains on the FBI most wanted, except for different reasons. Contract killer. It’s not surprising. Peeling away a layer of the city has allowed the FBI to see that the Hales and the Argents were in a constant territory power struggle, unbeknownst to the authorities. Taking out all the Hales bar Peter allowed Argent to swarm over the city and consume it. Someone will replace Argent, as the head of that mob, there’s always someone. Erica reckons it will be Gerard’s son Chris considering that Kate is six feet under, but Stiles doesn’t think so.

 

“Lovely day,” a voice says to Stiles right, “Mind if I join you?”

 

Jennifer sits down delicately next to Stiles, smoothing out any creases in her skirt.

 

“Deucalion,” Stiles says. He doesn’t turn to look at Jennifer but the small intake of breath indicates that his information is correct. “Peter Hale killed him for you, but you couldn’t pay him so now you owe him.”

 

“Peter said you would figure it out,” Jennifer replies. She doesn’t seem too phased that Stiles knows her secret. Perhaps because she knows that Stiles will never tell anyone. Stiles scatters some bread, before leaning forwards to rest his forearms on his thighs. He runs one hand through his hair.

 

“You seem conflicted,” Jennifer observes.

 

“Peter Hale is not a serial killer but a hit man,” Stiles says, slowing as if testing out the words. “I will admit that I didn’t see that one coming.”

 

“I suppose hit man is marginally better than serial killer,” Jennifer muses, “Although neither is desirable in a partner. Unless of course that turns you on.”

 

“Surprisingly, murder is more of a mood killer,” Stiles retorts. Jennifer snorts

 

“Peter finds you fascinating. I believe he wants to whisk you away in order to lavish his attention upon you or something along those lines.”

 

“He stabbed me. That’s not something I want a repeat of.”

 

“If he wasn’t a hit man, would you consider it?” Jennifer enquires. She sounds genuinely interested. Stiles laughs. It’s hollow, about as hollow as Stiles feels right now. Truthfully, he’s attracted to Peter. Peter is cunning and smart and quick witted and everything Stiles could want in a partner. Minus the hit man part and Stiles would jump at the prospect.  

 

But Peter is a hit man. And Stiles is an FBI agent. There are hurdles too high to even consider jumping. Stiles sighs heavily, getting to his feet.

 

“I think you know my answer.”

 

Jennifer looks up at him with dark eyes.

 

“I guess I do,” she replies. She stands up, straightens her skirt and pushes her hair over her shoulder. “It’s been fun Agent Stilinski but I hope we never cross paths again.” She walks away, her high heels clicking on the concrete. She reaches the bend in the path before turning to Stiles.

 

“I slipped his number into your pocket, in case you ever change your mind.”

 

And then she’s gone, strutting away down the bend and out of sight. Stiles reaches into his pocket, pulling out a scrap pieces of paper. He runs the pad of his index finger over the digits. He’s dialing within seconds, breathing slightly faster and heart pounding. The phone is picked up.

 

“Peter.”

**Author's Note:**

> Unger and Reddick are minor teen wolf characters from season 1. They try to steal Scott and Stiles alcohol and Unger ends up crispy as he gets dunked head first into a fire by Peter.
> 
> Come prompt me on [http://ladypigswagon.tumblr.com](tumblr)


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